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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29058786">all sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sa00harine/pseuds/sa00harine'>sa00harine</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Comfort, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Fluff, M/M, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:54:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29058786</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sa00harine/pseuds/sa00harine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What neither of them could predict was not Will, but Hannibal tossing and turning, murmuring unintelligibly under his breath in a foreign language Will couldn’t discern. He peeks over Hannibal’s shoulder. 4:16 AM. He rubs at his eyes, not mourning for the lost sleep. He was used to operating on little rest, and there was a more pressing matter at hand. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hiii it's 11:30 on a weeknight and I felt compelled write this here :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <span>In the dead of night, it was dependent on a coin toss whether or not Will would come awake, thrashing out of a nightmare. Since the fall over the bluff, he hadn’t had many. Slaying the dragon had worked in his fortune, it seemed, to fend off the recesses of his mind. Some nights it would seem that not a single day has passed since the days in Wolftrap, Virginia, bleary and blurry, disorienting with his brain on fire. Hannibal would fill a glass of water and rub his back while he gingerly sipped from it, sometimes explaining the dream and sometimes not. Then by morning they would wake again, wrapped in one another like the folds of one heart were. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>What neither of them could predict was not Will, but Hannibal tossing and turning, murmuring unintelligibly under his breath in a foreign language Will couldn’t discern. He peeks over Hannibal’s shoulder. 4:16 AM. He rubs at his eyes, not mourning for the lost sleep. He was used to operating on little rest, and there was a more pressing matter at hand. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Back to Hannibal, fingers clutching at the sheets, spasms riveting through his arms. His mouth moves. The words that come out don’t get across. But even Will didn’t need a translator to know when somebody was calling out for someone. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Will doesn’t wake him up yet, but instead slips his hand under Hannibal’s own, rubbing over his knuckles with his thumb. He moves closer and sweeps his other hand through Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal jerks away initially before he expels a rattling sigh and allows his head to lean into Will’s hand and the pillow. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Gradually the movements stop and Hannibal’s eyes move less under his eyelids. Will draws a small line over the ridge of his cheekbone. Still tense. Part of him hoped the nightmare would resolve itself and the jaws of the past would release Hannibal into dreams of cathedrals with resonant choirs and marble sprinkled throughout. It isn’t that Will doesn’t want to help him- he does, but he couldn’t help but think about Hannibal’s avoidance of vulnerability. Never by his own choice, but only in rare emotions as strident as an unstoppable force and severe physical injury. With a bullet through him, he’d still tried to wade through the waters. He was never one to drown. Will had never truly seen his head below the waves. </span>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <span>With a shaking breath, Hannibal wretches free of Will’s touch and rolls nearly over the side of the bed. He gasps, rough and what Will thinks is around a lump in his throat. Will doesn’t move. A moment passes in which he swears the drop of a thumbtack would be audible. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“How long?” Hannibal asks. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Will thinks. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.” Hannibal’s shoulders are stiff, hiked up to his ears as his breathing veers between hyperventilation and silent struggling for air. “Come here,” Will urges, sitting up. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Hannibal leans back enough for Will to wrap an arm around him. His heart is beating out of his chest and minute trembles run down his spine. “Breathe,” Will says into his ear, soft and very unlike how he usually spoke. “You’re in Salvador, Brazil,” he continues, hand tracing the notches of Hannibal’s spine. He stops and drags his knuckles between T8 and T9. “With me. There’s nobody else here. It’s safe. It’s 4:31 AM.”</span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Hannibal says nothing but his breathing matches with Will’s and his head falls in the groove between Will’s shoulder and neck. Will straightens to compensate for the slight bit of height difference so Hannibal’s neck won’t be sore in the morning. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“I’ll get you some water,” Will says eventually after Hannibal’s breathing had evened out enough for him to be considered relatively calm. He starts to rise but before he could get anywhere, Hannibal seizes his wrist in a grip so fierce Will bites back a yelp. He sits back down. “I’m staying,” he whispers, then. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“The same grounding exercise I taught you in Baltimore,” Hannibal says. His voice is hoarse and a type of quiet that could only come from holding back emotion. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Will pulls them to the center of the bed with Hannibal’s weight as good as dead weight for how frozen he was. “Had some use to me, does it to you?” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Hannibal slumps against him and when he goes stiff with the realization of how pliant he is, Will soothes him back with a hand carding through his hair. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“I recite it to myself from time to time when reality becomes uncertain.” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“Is it still uncertain?” Will asks. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Hannibal doesn’t answer. Instead: “why do you ask me so many questions?” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“Why do you answer my questions with questions?” Will presses a kiss to Hannibal’s hairline. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>A small hum from the other. His eyes are glassy. </span>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <span>“Tell me about her,” Will prompts. Hannibal goes so silent that he very well could have been a figment in Will’s mind. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Until reality steps in through the cracks with Hannibal drawing in an unsteady breath. “I was eight. She was six. She had blonde hair that was liquid sunlight and she wouldn’t go anywhere without me.” The affection in Hannibal’s voice is just about tangible. “She could never quite say my name in full,” he remembers as he speaks. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Will wipes at a tear, smudges it away with his thumb. “What did she call you?” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“‘Anniba.” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>A chuckle from Hannibal. Will almost smiles. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“Mischa,” Will says, testing the name out loud. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Hannibal smiles sadly. “Mischa,” he repeats. On his tongue it sounds like a prayer and a goodbye. A </span>
    <em>
      <span>wish you well, </span>
    </em>
    <span>and an </span>
    <em>
      <span>I miss you desperately. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“We would walk around the property while we still lived there. She slipped in mud, once, and instead of climbing out she pulled me in with her. We returned home with mud on both of our noses and received a scolding. She hid behind my leg while I took the blame.” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>The image of Hannibal as a child, before it all happened to him and he happened, is hard to picture with clarity. But what little he can fill the gaps with enlightens him.</span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>A memory- the image of fireflies clustering around the largest of them all, stained glass smashed bottle wings protruding outwards from a body made anew. “The prisoner,” Will says. Hannibal, for the first time, directly faces him. “I displayed him after Chiyoh killed him.” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“You freed her,” Hannibal remarks. In the dark, his eyes are wide. A few tears are visible trailing down his face. Will ducks down to kiss where they were, tasting the salt on his lips. Hannibal cups his cheek. His eyes close and they both remain there with their foreheads pressed together. Again, they breathe in tandem. Always blurring, always conjoined. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Close like this and now beginning to touch wakeness past drowsiness, Will can feel emotions stretch- Hannibal’s, definitely. He has outgrown his fear of his own empathy, and opens up to it full force. There is grief, so heavy his limbs sag, and then regret, anger, and a trace of anxiety Will never saw Hannibal carry with him of his own accord. Not that he would let it through willingly, but he was such a master of composure it was shocking to see every raw feeling with uttermost precision. </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“I strung him up and gave him wings too heavy for him to fly with. Lit some candles.” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>“Come daylight, I will ask you to describe it in more vivid detail,” Hannibal promises. “I want to be able to see it.” </span>
  </p>
  <p>
    <span>Will makes a noise of affirmation, pulling the blanket over them. Hannibal’s eyes are half-shut and he holds Will tighter than he had in all their intimacy shared thus far. “You have freed me too, Will,” he says. </span>
  </p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mischa lecter supremacy</p></blockquote></div></div>
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